Locked In
by Lala Kate
Summary: A storm creates rather cramped quarters for strangers one fateful night.
1. Chapter 1

_As do so many of my stories, this one began with a prompt on tumblr. :) I hope you enjoy this non-magical AU. And yes-I shall be updating "The Shadow of Death" very soon. Thanks so very much for reading! And of course as much as I adore them, I own nothing but an overactive imagination and a passion for writing._

* * *

This is a nightmare.

As if the storm weren't bad enough, as if taking refuge in this cheap motel room wasn't adding insult to injury, as if not having service for her iPhone wasn't the last straw, now the power has blown and the phone lines are down.

She can't call Henry to see if he's OK, can't check her email or even watch the progression of the hurricane as it makes its way down the coast. If only she hadn't been so stubborn about staying behind, if only she had swallowed her pride and followed Emma's advice, she would have been well away from the storm's fury right now.

She'd be with Henry. She wouldn't be alone.

But she is used to being alone. Women in power live solitary existences, and serving her second term as mayor is an accomplishment of which she is quite proud. She doesn't have time for the men Mary Margaret and Emma keep sending her way. Just because they have someone to warm their beds at night doesn't give them the right to assume that her life is lacking.

A knock on the door makes her jump, and she digs for the small flashlight she carries in her purse, turning it on immediately. She steadies her hand, moving quietly to the peephole to get a glimpse of who is standing on the other side.

A man. One soaked to the skin and looking as desperate as she had been thirty minutes ago.

She hesitates, knowing this dump is in the middle of nowhere, knowing he could be a rapist, a murderer, a drug dealer or just your average asshole. But she opens the door, leaving the chain in place, staring into a face that looks oddly familiar.

"May I help you?"

Her voice is sharp, her tone steady as her eyes narrow in his direction.

"I'm looking for a room," the man yells into the gale, his rain coat offering him no protection from the elements.

"Check in at the front desk like everybody else," she instructs, shouting to ensure she is heard.

"I did," he returns. "All the rooms are taken. The man told me to see if you would share."

Her heart pounds loudly, and she swallows down a surge of panic.

"I'm sorry," she yells. "But I'm not in a habit of sharing my room with a man I don't know."

He reaches into his pocket, and she stiffens reflexively, only to see him pull out a badge and hold it up for her inspection.

"Federal Marshal, ma'am," he clarifies. "I promise to do you no harm."

She wavers, wishing she could see his face more clearly. He could be lying. Then again, he could be telling the truth.

Her fingers release the chain before she can think about it further, and she steps back, still unsure of why she let him in as he steps in out of the storm.

"Thank you," he says, the earnestness in his gaze somehow reassuring. "I appreciate this more than you know."

His jacket slides off, his shirt plastered to his chest, and she can't help but notice how well-formed he is.

"Would you mind shining that thing somewhere else?' he asks, blocking his eyes from her flashlight's direct beam.

"Sorry," she mutters, setting it down on the dresser, its light pointing upward casting the room in an eerie glow.

"I'm Robin," he offers, extending his hand. "Robin Locksley."

She takes his hand, its wet state doing nothing to deter its warmth.

"Regina," she returns, finding this stranger far too attractive for her own peace of mind. This is neither the time nor the place for a mindless dalliance she would most certainly regret, especially under such undesirable circumstances.

"I'd lock that if I were you," he states flatly, indicating the door. "After all, you never know who might show up on a night like this."


	2. Chapter 2

_Many thanks to Cls2011 for the prompt that started this entire mess and to miscreant rose for read-throughs and critiques. :) You two are the best. And thank you, dear readers, for taking on another chapter. :) Your thoughts are always most welcome and appreciated. _

* * *

She isn't sure what to make of Robin Locksley.

He sits on one of the beds, going through a case, laying out guns and ammunition, a knife and handcuffs, drying them off, studying them in a manner she cannot read.

"Are you trying to frighten me?"

He looks up at her, a small grin toying with the corner of his lips.

"You don't strike me as the type to frighten easily."

She chuckles in return, watching as he begins to slide the weapons back into the enclosure, closing it securely.

"You're right. I don't. Otherwise, you'd be riding out the storm in someone else's room."

He folds his hands and leans his elbows on his knees, raising a brow in her direction.

"I'm glad I'm riding it out in yours."

She feels something in his gaze even though it is shadowed, and she wishes the power would come back on so she could determine the color of his eyes.

"Is this how you normally pick up women?" she quips, enjoying the sound of his laughter. "By begging them to let you stay over in their hotel rooms until the storm lets up?"

The wind rattles the window as if on cue, and he stands staring at the drapes, moving in her direction.

"You should come away from the window, Regina," he states, extending his hand towards her. "Anything could come flying through the glass in a storm like this."

She hesitates but complies, moving towards the back of the small room, wondering how much protection a few extra feet will offer.

"Should we move back into the bathroom or the closet?"

A creaking sound outside has him nodding before he speaks.

"Yes. I think that might be wise."

She grabs her flashlight, he his case. They move into the small, windowless room, closing the door behind them as they adjust to the tight space.

"You can have the seat," he quips, grandly gesturing to the commode.

"Aren't you the gentleman?" she observes sarcastically, earning a grin she likes too much.

"My mother would be so proud," he returns with a bow, garnering an eye roll and a near snort. "She would be appalled if she thought I wasn't minding my manners, especially with a lady."

"Does she approve of all of your toys?" she questions, indicating his weapons case with a flick of her fingers.

"I grew up in Texas," he returns. "My mother is one hell of a shot."

"So am I," she states, feeling the way he looks her over in the muted light.

"I'm glad to hear it," he muses as he sits on the bathtub's rim. "It's important that a woman know how to defend herself."

She senses something behind his statement.

"Is that why you became a Federal Marshall?" she asks, her voice loaded. "To defend the weaker sex?"

"I never said women were the weaker sex," he amends quickly. "Just that it is important that they be able to fight off any monsters that want to do them harm."

A shiver runs up her back.

"Is that what you're doing out here? Hunting down a monster?"

He is silent a moment as a blast of thunder rocks the walls.

"I was," he nods. "Until this hurricane got in my way."

Her heart thuds against her neck.

"Where were you heading before the storm stopped you?"

His question makes her heart ache.

"On my way to my son," she answers, looking away from him. "He's eleven."

"I have a son," he offers, unable to keep from smiling. "Almost five years old."

She hums in approval, staring back at him, wondering but afraid to ask.

"Are you—"

They stop, laughing at questions blurted out simultaneously.

"After you," he offers with a nod.

"I was just going to ask about your wife," she manages, swallowing down nerves she shouldn't feel. "If she minds you going off on these witch hunts of yours."

"Monster hunts," he corrects before dropping his eyes. "And she can't mind. Not anymore. She's dead."

The words land with the grace of a rock.

"I'm sorry," she breathes, feeling their impact.

"So am I," he admits. "Roland doesn't even remember her."

"Roland?" she questions. "Your son?"

The boy's name brings an immediate smile to his face.

"Yes. And yours?"

"Henry," she answers, somehow missing him more by speaking his name.

"Is he with his father?"

She shakes her head before gazing at him directly.

"I'm not married."

He nods slowly, pursing his lips.

"I adopted Henry when he was an infant," she explains. "It's always just been the two of us until recently."

"What happened?" he questions. "A new man in your life?"

Eyes lock into each other as the temperature between them rises perceptibly.

"I don't have time for that," she voices, catching a flicker in his gaze. "No, Henry decided he wanted to meet his birth mother and managed to track her down. He's with her right now."

He leans in closer.

"That can't be easy," he observes as she tries to swallow down what is still tender. "Sharing your child with another woman."

"It isn't," she admits quietly. "But it's better now than it used to be. He wants her in his life, and I'll do whatever is necessary to keep him in mine."

"Spoken like a true lioness," he muses with an appreciative nod. "God help anyone who threatens her young."

"You're very observant," she states, receiving a small chuckle in return.

"I have to be," he shrugs. "Comes with the job."

She absorbs all of this, still wanting more but uncertain if it is wise to keep probing.

"So what happened?" she dares. "To your wife?"

He sucks in air, exhaling it slowly into the weighted silence of their enclosure. Then the walls vibrate under the stress of the elements, an ungodly noise from outside pushing them closer together.

"A monster," he confides, so close she can feel his whisper on her cheek. "She was killed by a monster."


	3. Chapter 3

Robin's confession reverberates in her ribcage with the same intensity as the wind just outside.

"Oh my God," Regina returns. "I'm sorry. I wouldn't have asked if…"

"It's alright," he interrupts with a wave of his hand. "I'm used to it. Trust me."

Blotched patterns of silver and shadow highlight the contours of his face, and she recognizes the tight lines of pain all too well.

"Whenever I'm out with Roland, someone inevitably asks about his mother," he offers, his tone dropping several pitches. "It used to tear me to shreds, and then for a while it just made me angry."

"And now?" she asks, staring at him intently as another blast of thunder rocks the floor.

"Sometimes it stings. But sometimes there's nothing," he whispers, shaking his head in a form of self-chastisement. "And I feel so guilty when there isn't, like I'm failing her memory or something."

She scoots in closer.

"How long ago did she—"

She cuts herself off, licking her lips.

"Did she die?" he finishes for her with a sigh. "Almost two years ago."

Air passes between them, thick and heavy even as a chill speeds up her arms.

"You know, sometimes it seems like an eternity, and others…"

"Like she was just here," she cuts in, drawing his gaze as she clears her throat. He eyes her curiously, asking her something immensely private without uttering a word.

"I was engaged once. A very long time ago."

He nods, still not speaking. She nearly falters.

"We were kids, really, but we thought we knew everything."

"Isn't that true of all kids?" he questions.

"I suppose. But I had appointed myself queen of my realm and everyone in it."

His deep chuckle reassures her somehow.

"Why don't I find this difficult to picture?"

She punches his arm, making him laugh and wince simultaneously.

"Ow," he grins. "You know how to throw a punch, I'd wager."

"I never miss," she boasts, enjoying his crack of laughter under the weight of so much.

"So no one questions you as mayor, I take it," he teases, biting his lower lip.

"I do like being in charge," she admits, smiling at his good-natured eye roll.

"So I've noticed," he states. "But that's not necessarily a bad thing."

"No, it isn't," she agrees. "But it isn't always an easy path to follow, either."

"No. It's not."

Silence hovers over them again, the pelting of hard rain hammering an uneven tattoo all around their makeshift haven.

"What happened?" he asks gently. "To your fiancé?"

She inhales through flared nostrils, amazed at how tender the wound has remained.

"He died in an accident," she answers, working to steady her hands. "He was rounding a curve too fast and met a truck head-on."

She stops, swallowing back the bile that always accompanies memories of Daniel.

"He was on his way to see me," she acknowledges, swimming away from the vortex with everything she has. "We were going to elope that night."

"Christ," he breathes, rubbing his hands over his scalp. "God, Regina. That's terrible."

"No more terrible than what happened to your wife," she observes, reigning in as much control as she can muster as she feels the air shift between them.

"No," he agrees. "I suppose not. It's not an easy road we've had to travel, it would seem."

She shakes her head in agreement, unable to work out just why she is telling him so much. His scent envelops her in the darkness, fortifying her with some electric current even as the storm rages on around them.

"Marion," he offers, swallowing hard. "My wife's name was Marion."

Her heart tightens into a fist.

"Daniel," she breathes, forcing her chin not to quiver.

"May they rest in peace."

His hand encompasses hers, vital warmth encased in a rough texture that both soothes and stimulates every nerve in her body. Her skin seems sensitized to his slightest movement, puckering at the sensation of his breathing, rippling at the soft trails traced by his thumb across her knuckles.

Then an inhuman wail pierces through the raging storm, making them both stand as he draws her to his chest. She cringes at the high pitched screeching, the agonizing moans, as if giants and banshees were dueling just outside their window.

"What in God's name was that?" she manages into his chest, staring at the wall as if it holds the answers.

"I don't know," he answers, moving away from her. "Wait here."

She watches him step out cautiously, and she peeks around the door frame, shining the flashlight into the dark cavern of their room. Nothing looks out of order, yet the sound was so close, as if death itself had been humming down their necks.

Then a metallic scrape, like an overly-large metal gate swinging off its hinge makes her start, and the both look around the room, needing to know, afraid to find out.

Wait-is their door dented?

He must notice the same thing, and he moves towards it steadily, rubbing its surface from top to bottom.

"The door is still secure, but something must be pushed up against it," he calls out to her, jiggling the lock with determination. "The doorknob is jammed."

He then moves stealthily to the window, pulling back the curtain and peering outside.

"Christ," he mutters, holding his arm out towards her as she scurries in his direction, her pulse already in her neck. She moves into his side, squinting her eyes into the all-encompassing darkness.

"Is that a truck?" she questions incredulously.

"Yes, unfortunately," he responds, shaking his head as they stare at the large vehicle laying on its side against the only entrance to their room. "It's a wonder it didn't crash into us."

Her heart thuds painfully against her ribs as she imagines what could have been their fate. She leans into him, relishing the feel of warm hands gripping her waist, the mixed smells of sweat and relief, the awareness of blood pumping life into arms that hold her close.

"Do you have any food?" he asks, drawing her attention as she turns into him directly.

"How can you think of food at a time like this?" she questions, shaking her head in disbelief.

"Because we're locked in until someone can tow that thing away," he observes, watching her eyes widen in response. "And God only knows how long that will take."


	4. Chapter 4

_So sorry for the delay in updating, dear readers. Between moving to a new house and going on vacation to Disney World, my writing time has been more limited lately. Thank you soooo much for all of your reviews and pm's about this story. I do hope you enjoy this latest installment. :)_

_Many thanks to Cls2011 and miscreant rose, my dear friends who read everything I write and offer honest feedback, no matter what stage of readiness it may be in. Love you two. _

_Own nothing. Love it all. _

* * *

She stares gaping out the window, still processing the reality that seems too odd to be true.

"You're certain there's no way out?"

Her question draws his gaze, and he looks back at her with an expression she can't read.

"I suppose we could break the window," Robin observes. "But how would we get past that hulk of metal blocking our path?"

Her limbs feel unsteady as a shiver rocks her spine, and his arms tighten about her, his eyes creasing in concern. Is this really happening? She feels control slip through her fingers at an alarming rate.

"Are you alright?" he whispers.

"Yes," she whispers, her knees feeling weak. "It's just, how am I going to get to Henry?"

The storm continues to howl around them, and they hear the sound of something crashing fairly close. Thank God Henry went ahead with Emma and Killian and is now safe and dry somewhere outside of her reach. Thank God he isn't stuck here with her under these conditions.

"You will get to Henry," he assures her. "Just as I'll get to Roland. It will just be later than we'd planned."

Her swallow sounds unnaturally loud to her ears, and the reality that she is literally locked in with this man she has just met begins to sink in. Her throat feels unnaturally dry, her legs unusually wobbly.

"We'd best move away from the window again, I think," he suggests, guiding her away from the other-worldly view. "That wind is still packing a punch."

She begins to shiver, trying to fight for a mere semblance of control but failing miserably. Damn—that ringing in her ears—when did that start?

"Here," he breathes, moving her to the bed closest to the inner wall, tugging off the blanket and wrapping it around her. "This should help." He then moves to the sink, tripping over something and cursing under his breath. She hears the sound of a faucet being turned on, of water running freely, and she feels the cool surface of a glass being pressed firmly into her hand.

"Drink," he orders, clearly expecting her to comply without question. Oddly enough, she has neither the will nor inclination to buck him, and she sips the water slowly, feeling its calming tendrils envelope her insides almost immediately. His arms then encircle her, rubbing hers gently through the blanket, restoring warmth and settling nerves through a touch she shouldn't find so comforting. She sighs, setting down the empty glass, and he leans her back into his chest, his heat pulsing palpable through the fabric.

"Thank you," she murmurs, pulling the blanket tighter around her frame.

"Just try to relax and breathe slowly," he murmurs, the timbre of his voice almost hypnotic. "It should help."

She does as he instructs, all too aware of how close he is, of how earthy he smells, of how his trim beard makes her tingle down to her thighs when it just brushes against her ear. She exhales, willing muscles to relax, willing her mind to unravel, willing herself into a place of calm where she can reason and feel steady.

The pitch of the wind outside isn't helping. Neither is the proximity of his mouth.

"I don't know what just happened," she continues, suddenly self-conscious of her decided show of weakness.

"Your clothes are still damp, and you've suffered a bit of a shock," he returns logically. "And being stuck with the likes of me in the midst of a hurricane can't be your idea of the perfect night out."

A puff of air escapes her as ligaments unwind and blood flow quickens.

"I have had better first dates," she muses, pleased to both feel and hear his chuckled response.

"But I'd wager no one has given you a wilder one."

"True," she admits, flinching as lightning strikes closer than either of them would like.

"Roland hates thunderstorms," Robin states, his voice vibrating through muscle and bone, liquefying them upon contact.

"Henry has never been fond of them, either," she tosses in. "Although now he tries very hard to convince me that they don't bother him anymore. Of course, he doesn't know that I'm aware of the stuffed rabbit he hides in the top drawer of his nightstand in case things get a bit rough."

"Roland keeps a flashlight under his pillow," he nods. "Just in case the power ever goes out."

"Smart boy," she observes. "I'd hate to be in our predicament now without one."

"So would I," he shrugs. "But I can think of situations when it would be worse not to have a flashlight."

"Such as…" she baits, feeling his chuckle target her nipples.

"Abandoned subway tunnels, deserted mine shafts, the moors at night…"

"Alright," she halts him, attempting not to laugh. "Point taken."

"Left inside one of the Pyramids of Giza, alone with the mummies," he continues. "Stuck in Vlad the Impaler's castle with a candle but no matches, lost at sea on a cold raft without cable or wireless."

"Without wireless," she interrupts, smiling broadly in spite of herself. "Sounds familiar."

"Sure, we're stuck in a somewhat run-down motel room, sitting in the dark with no way out," he muses, his cheek close enough to touch. "Wireless is down, a truck is blocking our only way out…"

"If you're trying to cheer me up, you're doing a lousy job of it," she quips, her hair brushing his cheek as she throws him a pointed glance.

"Things could always be worse, you know," he corrects, raising his brows. "You could be forced to share a room with a troupe of Armenian acrobats determined to practice regardless of the weather and confined space."

"Are you trying to improve your standing through unreasonable comparison?" she quips, enjoying how her head just fits into the crook of his shoulder.

"Whatever it takes," he shrugs whimsically. "However I haven't even gotten to the worst case scenario."

"God help us," she fires back. "And that would be what?"

"I could be stuck sharing a room with a smelly old man who refuses to shower and insists upon sleeping naked."

Laughter bursts out of her, unleashing knotted tension as nothing else could, and she elbows him lightly through the blanket.

"Hey," he protests. "That was meant as a compliment, you know."

"Because I'm hygienic and pack a nightgown?"

It's his turn to chuckle as he turns her in his direction.

"The good hygiene is a definite plus," he grins, biting his lower lip again. "But I'm not sure about the nightgown."

Her brows fly up, her eyes meeting his head on.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asks pointedly as her heart zooms haphazardly from rib to rib.

"Use your imagination, Madame Mayor."

His voice rubs her like rough velvet, every nerve singing his tune, every atom on high alert.

"Don't you think you're being a bit forward, Marshall?' she questions, leaning in almost imperceptibly. "After all, we hardly know each other."

"True," he concedes. "But I can think of a few ways to remedy that situation. How about you?"

She imagines how he would taste, how he would feel, how his palms could warm her body, how his lips could tickle desires long dormant. She's nearly forgotten the sensation of simply wanting a man, burying embers under carefully tailored dress suits and heels, locking them into briefcases, hushing them into silence along with the cries of her son over a decade's worth of sleepless nights.

God, how badly she wants to throw caution to the wind and to just _feel_, to simply be a woman with nothing to lose but inhibition and reason and more to gain than she can remember. To let her skin be caressed by another's hand, to have hidden alcoves mapped and traced with lips, teeth and tongue, to open herself up to possibility and pleasure while shutting the blinds to an endless maze of responsibility.

Henry's not here, Storybrooke lies miles to her north, and before her sits a man, a powerful, primal man who clearly wants her and has no qualms in telling her so directly, unlike most men in her sphere who find her position of leadership either a turn-off or intimidating.

Her skin puckers in time with her muscles.

"We could play charades," she hums suggestively. "It's one of Henry's favorites, you know."

He nods in appreciation.

"Roland prefers Go Fish," he retorts, his voice thick, his face heated in arousal. "I find it to be quite a stimulating game if played correctly."

A deep ache has her full attention, all senses honing in on a set of mischievous dimples enjoying themselves far too much.

"Are you tossing me bait?" she tosses back, her lips inching closer, her doubts kicked under the bed.

"That depends," he hums. "Will you nibble?"

"I think you underestimate me, Marshall," she hums back throatily. "I don't nibble. I bite."


	5. Chapter 5

_Thank you so much for all of your reviews, pm's and support on tumblr for this story! Reviews are most welcome and treasured by this writer._

_I do not own Once Upon a Time, in case you were curious. ;) And as always, many thanks to miscreant rose and Cls2011 for their undying support and willingness to read draft after draft of this tale. _

* * *

He swallows hard, staring into eyes shining a ghostly black in the low light.

"Is that a threat or a promise?" he hums, leaning in close.

"That all depends on your approach," she returns, raising an eyebrow. "And whether or not you're up for the challenge. I suggest you choose wisely."

"Oh, I'm up for it," he grins, making her laugh at his pun. "There's no question about that."

She looks downward, a delicious energy unleashing a smile across her face.

"I'm glad to hear it," she returns. "It's not as much fun to play alone."

"I agree," he murmurs. "Especially when there's such an attractive offer for a play date on the table."

"Even if your playmate is a biter?" she dares, swallowing down her pulse, wondering if he can see the nervous energy radiating out her pores.

"I've never been put off by a good set of teeth," he hums, his nose brushing hers, his breath warm on her mouth.

She smiles at him, her heart pounding even as her body races ahead of her reason, pushing her into him with a force she has nearly forgotten.

"Neither have I," she breathes, wanting to kiss him, to devour him, to lay aside all thought and sensibility and simply feel like a woman. "Just like I've never been put off by a good set of balls."

His eyes widen at her forwardness, but he grins like Christmas has just arrived early.

"Sports fan, are you?" he muses, tickling the side of her ear with his finger. "I'm willing to wager you have excellent ball-handling skills."

"It's all in the fingers," she boasts as she flicks them in a wave, licking her lips, enjoying the way his breath hitches at her daring. "And the palms."

"So you have a firm grip?" he questions, his hands sliding into her hair.

"It's almost magical, you might say."

Her voice has dropped nearly an octave, her breath coming in snatches she tries to keep steady.

"That sounds stimulating," he manages as he takes her hand, spreading her fingers until she is open to him, planting a wet kiss on her exposed palm. "Black or white magic, my lady?"

The texture of his voice matching that of his scruff, and she is burning to feel his mouth on the vast expanse of her skin.

"Pick your poison, Marshall," she instructs, shivering at her own boldness.

"I'll take black magic," he hums, her nipples aching at his declaration. "Did I choose wisely?"

"Ah," she manages, her body beginning to hum as his mouth works its way to her wrist, making time with her pulse. "You like forbidden fruit, I take it."

He draws back to stare into her, forging a connection with her she cannot begin to understand.

"The juicier the better."

Her legs turn to liquid on the spot.

Who is this woman about to do something radically impulsive, something she may well regret the instant it's over, something her mother would never understand? Is this Mayor Mills, the lost girl still mourning young love cruelly snatched away, the single mother struggling to give her son the love and support she never received as a girl, the politician working to keep her town together while battling a tough opponent in an upcoming campaign?

Perhaps. But at the moment, she is simply Regina, a lonely woman who wants lose herself in the arms a man tempting her with the sweetest of poisons.

"Be prepared to wipe your chin," she whispers across his cheek, her entire body flushing at once.

"Gladly," he breathes just before mouths nearly slam into each other, open and desperate, hot and in need. Her skin prickles and burns, every pulse point in her body aching for his tongue, every nerve crying out for his caress. Lips continually collide, battling for dominance in a duel shooting sparks to her thighs and breasts, and she slides her hands into his jacket, peeling it off for him with fingers still trembling.

"Are you alright?"

His question takes her off-guard, and she blinks to focus, thunder rocking their room at an opportune moment.

"Yes," she fires back. "Why wouldn't I be?"

He laughs under his breath, bringing her hand to his mouth yet again.

"Hmm," he begins. "Caught in a hurricane, truck blocking the door, strange man in your room, strange man coming on to you…"

"Strange man talking too much," she tosses back, silencing him with her mouth. But he pulls back gently, taking her hands in his own yet again.

"You're shaking, you know. I don't want to do this if you're not certain."

A puff of air escapes her, pushed from her lungs involuntarily, and she closes her eyes, willing a center of calm to emerge that she does not feel.

"If I wasn't certain, I wouldn't be unbuttoning your shirt," she hums, nudging his nose with hers.

He hisses at the feel of her nails on his skin, swallowing audibly as his fingers wind in her hair.

"It's alright if you're nervous, you know," he breathes into her hair. "I am somewhat, myself."

She leans back, surprised by his comment, staring at him in a manner deeper than she had until this moment.

"So you're not a one-night stand kind of guy, I take it?"

Her question lays between them, and he shakes his head as a sound of wry amusement escapes him.

"Not exactly," he admits, and she wonders if he's blushing, wishing she could see the colors of his skin rather than just textures outlined in dim light. "This is my first one, to be honest."

Her heart hammers in her temples, and she licks lips missing his mouth.

"My second," she confesses, feeling somehow lighter voicing information so intimate to this unexpected stranger. Then something hits her, and her eyes widen as she looks back at him half-alarmed. "Are you equipped for this?"

He coughs, making her laugh as the implications of what she just said hit her soundly.

"I certainly hope so," he mutters, looking down at his lap, biting his lower lip. "If not, we'll both be terribly disappointed."

"I meant prepared," she tosses back trying to contain her amusement, watching his brows raise in understanding. "If you're not someone who normally does this sort of thing, I just wondered."

He pulls out his wallet and fumbles through it, pulling out three condoms for her perusal.

"My friend John slipped these in last weekend," he explains with a shrug. "Told me it was high time I get out there again."

_You need to get out there again, Regina, _Emma told her just three days ago, earning herself a withering look of annoyance and instructions to go straddle her new boyfriend and mind her own damned business.

"So you get that, too?" she questions, her breath becoming ragged again as he begins to toy with the front of her blouse.

"All too often," he breathes roughly as she slides his shirt down his arms. His skin is hot and smooth, and her palms are drawn to it as if under an enchantment. God, he feels incredible, the smattering of hair across his chest stimulating her with the power of a potent aphrodisiac. A chill crawling up her back alerts her to the fact that her blouse has come off—how odd she hadn't noticed its descent—and she is now clad only in a lace camisole he seems to like quite well.

"Is this black?" he questions, toying with a thin strap as his lips caress her shoulder.

"Yes," she manages, digging her nails into his back as teeth and tongue take up a tango along her clavicle.

"Excellent choice," he responds, the huskiness of his tone rubbing her thighs. "It matches your hair and eyes."

"Some might say it matches my heart," she whispers, wishing she could recall the words the moment they fall from her lips.

He draws back once again until they are forehead to forehead.

"Then they haven't taken the time to look deeper."

Oh God.

Her heart drops to her stomach, her eyes round in a state of panic as an intense feeling slithers under her skin, wrapping her soundly with cords of tenderness that threaten to expose too much. How is this man getting too her so quickly? Perhaps he is the one wielding a magic of which she has no knowledge.

"Did I say something wrong?"

His fingers stroke her arm, her shoulder, then his thumb caresses her face.

"Why are you doing this?"

He studies her in luminous shadows, his eyes taking on an almost fluorescent quality in their intensity.

"I don't know, actually," he confesses, his touch both unsettling and steadying. "Perhaps it's a reaction to living on the edge of destruction and death, perhaps it's simply the fact that I'm locked in a hotel room with a woman whose beauty surpasses my command of my own tongue."

She tries to swallow, her mouth suddenly parched and hot, her toes so cold they are nearly numb.

"But I think it's more than that," he continues, taking her hand in his own, making her start with the realization that he is trembling, too. "And that's what I can't explain."

Her tongue thickens in her mouth, her pulse responding to his words as her senses understand what her mind tries to dismiss.

"Try," she commands, her voice far steadier than her emotions. He smiles at the tone of natural authority she wields without thinking, covering her knuckles with his lips in a manner that goes deeper than she anticipates. Damn it. She doesn't have the time or need for any emotional entanglements, especially with a Federal Marshall she'll never see again once the storm passes and help arrives. And why the hell should she feel anything more than raw lust, pure and simple, understandable for a woman in her position and an easy urge to satiate?

He shakes his head, racking his fingers through thick hair before his cheeks fill with air he puffs out slowly.

"When I first met Marian, there was something there I'd never felt before," he begins, looking at the ceiling. "A connection that existed before we even spoke, a need to get to know her that defied all logic."

He pauses, clearing his throat, his gaze falling to their intertwined hands.

"After I lost her, a part of me died, as well," he continues, his tone fractured and exposed. God, she knows this feeling, had felt its imprint on bone and muscle after Daniel died in that crash. It had awakened her from what sleep she could manage, making her gasp for air as she struggled to break free from the clutches of strangling nightmares.

"That part of me eventually numbed, and I learned to exist again," he states, looking back at her in a manner that hits her soundly. "Of course, Roland was my lifeline. Without him, I don't know how I would have managed."

"Children are powerful medicine,"

"They have the ability to heal, I think."

He pauses, clearly taken aback by his own personal admissions as driving rain hits the windows and roof.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to get so personal so quickly."

Her eyes take in their half-dressed state as a wry grin breaks out across her lips.

"I thought getting personal was what this was all about."

His chuckle morphs into a languid kiss, one that tugs on her nipples and teases off-limit emotions.

"I suppose getting naked is getting personal," he laughs, nudging down the waistline of her slacks. She raises her hips to aid him, nearly losing her balance as his lips touch down just below her naval.

"Sensitive," he muses, working his mouth in a westerly direction towards her hipbone, cupping her bottom securely. She grips his hair to balance herself, her hips moving of their own accord.

"I suspect you are, as well," she hums, allowing one hand to drop to his hips, her fingers delving into his waistband, unfastening and toying with his zipper as his head falls into her breasts.

"God, Regina," he breathes raggedly, looking up at her with a depth of feeling that frightens her. "What sort of spell have you cast over me?

She silences him physically, open-mouthed and raw as she straddles his groin. She doesn't need an emotional tie, doesn't want to let him inside her psyche even as she craves him deeply elsewhere. He is dangerous and primal, an unknown force that renders her weak to charms wielded in the form of a quick wit and dimples.

But she can't get enough of him, in her mouth, under her palms, beneath her thighs, all over her mind.

His scent intensifies, and she feels a sheen of sweat on his face, her mouth skimming the sensitized flesh of his neck and chest, the taste of salt mixed with arousal nearly sending her over the edge. He responds instantly, hot palms blazing paths on her back, his tongue as hard as other parts of him, she suspects. Her arms wrap around his shoulders, crawl into his hair, her nails penciling sketches over skin that make his breath catch and his kisses deepen.

She raises up on her knees, and his hands pull her face to his own, his lips hard and demanding as they taste each other freely with the fervor of starving peasants lead into a royal feast.

"I take it you're done talking," he somehow manages as her teeth capture his lower lip, eliciting a deep moan that makes her pulse.

"I'm glad you paid attention," she hums, leaning back far enough to pull her camisole over her head, exposing her black push-up bra. He exhales heatedly, a hungry grin meeting her predatory one, and she stares back at him, knowing if she makes one more move, there will be no going back.

"What are you waiting for, Marshall?" she questions, standing and kicking off her slacks, emboldened by the awestruck expression gazing back at her slack-jawed.

"Not a damned thing," he returns, pulling her back into his arms and on to a mattress that squeaks under their weight.

* * *

_Thoughts, anyone?_


	6. Chapter 6

_Dedicated to Cls2011 whose love for OQ and passion for this fic always make me smile. Special thanks to her and the amazing miscreant rose for their unending support and endless read-throughs. _

_To all of my readers-you are the best. Thank you so much for embracing this story as you have! Your lovely notes and reviews never fail to put a huge smile on my face. _

_I don't own OuaT. And a friendly reminder: this fic is rated M for a reason. You have been warned. ;)_

* * *

She is about to come out of her skin.

His mouth is on her neck again, tasting and nipping, his beard rousing her in ways she never anticipated, its coarseness triggering electric shocks straight to her pulse points with the speed of a blink. The mattress moves rhythmically under them, it's high-pitched squeak both humorous and unexpectedly erotic.

"You taste incredible, you know."

Her breath hitches at his words, and she nearly laughs at such musings, knowing no one has ever before said anything at all like that to her. God—the thought makes her feel incredibly sexy and bold, and her fingers run through the course waves of his hair, wondering just how much of her he will taste before the night is over.

"Do I?" she questions breathlessly, her eyes lolling back in their sockets as he rocks against her once and then twice. "I wouldn't know."

He laughs against her, peppering hot kisses around her ear.

"God, yes," he returns, moving his attentions to her clavicle, and she feels a dimple prick against her skin as her moan presses her into him. "Spicy and delicate, sweet and savory. You make me hungry for more."

Her core shivers and pulses as her heart clenches in a manner she's not ready to entertain.

"I'm ravenous, actually," he continues, moving his mouth along her bra strap, his tongue flicking under the material and nearly pushing her out of her own mind. "Of course, the selection is rather limited at the moment."

She freezes, pushing him off of her only to see the bastard grinning back at her like an idiot. He is baiting her and enjoying every second of it, and her eyes narrow dangerously in his direction.

"Options are unnecessary when perfection lies right in front of you," she half-hisses, her pulse racing ahead of her at the blatant hunger in his eyes. "So I suggest you wipe the drool off your chin and show some manners if you want to sample this buffet."

He bites his lower lip mischievously, and she can't resist rubbing a finger along his beard when he looks at her like that. He moans at the contact, the sound of it targeting her core with precision, and he draws the finger into his mouth, sucking on it until she begins to rock under him, seeking needed friction, bucking as his teeth nip just above her knuckle and trace a torturous path to its tip.

"Forget sampling," he hums, his mouth giving up her finger and kissing its way across her chest until he hovers just between her breasts. "I intend to feast."

She clutches his face between her hands, drawing his gaze directly into her own.

"In that case, I hope you don't have a weak stomach because I don't intend to hold back, either."

He chuckles at her audacity, and she now burns on two ends.

"What's so funny, Marshall?" she challenges, taking him off-guard as she flips herself on top of him, pinning his arms above his head. "Cat got your tongue?"

His chest is heaving in time with hers, ragged breaths caressing and sparring, and she sees that her breast are close to spilling out of her bra.

Good. She'll enjoy tormenting him for a change.

"You tell me," he hums, raising his head just slightly "Feline or canine?"

She twirls her hips just over his groin, seeing the shadow of his expansion pushing through his undone pants.

"Dragon," she teases, leaning her cleavage down until it is just out of reach of his mouth, reveling in the flare of his nostrils at her maneuver. "And you know what they say about playing with fire."

Something animalistic flashes in his eyes as lightening cracks just outside their window. Then she is on her back again, his hands rubbing her arms, her stomach, his mouth dangerously close as fingers move upwards to trace the outline of what was just dangling above his face.

"Griffon," he breathes roughly, claiming her lips with force, pressing his tongue into hers, her hips rising and bucking recklessly in response. "And I've never been afraid of the heat."

His beard edges against the swell or her breasts, and her core now pants for his hardness. Her nails dig into his shoulder, making him hiss and kiss her all the harder, making her burn until she thinks she will combust.

God, she needs him out of his pants, she thinks wordlessly, half-thrilled by her wantonness, half-amazed by it.

"So you say now," she hums, biting the tip of his ear, prodded on by the low growl creeping out of his chest. "Just wait until I turn up the temperature."

She flips him over yet again, and he laughs smoothly, grabbing her ass until she presses down on to him even harder.

"You're a dangerous woman, aren't you?" he breathes into her neck, nipping the flesh there just enough to make her moan and grind into him further.

"Are you just figuring that out?" she muses, raising her brows at him incredulously.

"I just don't like to make snap judgments," he hums, obviously turned on by her prowess. "I like to take my time, explore all areas thoroughly."

Her eyes seal shut of their own accord as his fingers wrap around her back to seek the clasp of her bra. "Front," she whispers, hovering over his mouth, unable to stifle a giggle when he curses under his breath.

"Are you sure it comes off?" he questions, twisting and maneuvering his hands in an attempt to release it, finally dropping his hands out of exasperation. "Or is it an enchanted undergarment of some sort?"

"Here," she interjects. "What kind of Federal Marshall can't even unfasten a bra?"

"A sexually frustrated one," he retorts, pulling an unbidden and rather loud snort of laughter out of her. "Now that was sexier than hell."

"Watch it," she warns with a pointed brow. "It's not nice to tease a woman you're trying to have sex with. She might just change her mind."

"Who said I was teasing?" he questions, trailing hot fingers down the slopes of her stomach in a movement that half-tickles and fully arouses. "I don't want a woman I'm going to make love to feel like she has to hold anything back."

His words hit her like a bolt, unleashing fire and insecurities in a breathless race for dominance.

"Is that what this is?" she whispers, uncertain whether or not she is ready for the answer. "Making love?"

Her question hangs on a clap of thunder, the creak of metal in the distance unheard by either of them. He presses himself up on his elbows, his face brilliantly illuminated by another flash of lightening as he stares at her with an expression of such tenderness and confusion she doesn't know how to respond.

"I'm sorry if that startled you," he begins, biting his lower lip. "I just don't know just how capable I am of merely having sex without some sort of emotional connection. Not my style."

Her throat tightens in time with her nipples, her heart swelling with every deafening beat.

"What is your style, then?" she questions as he sits up. They are eye to eye, breath to breath, and he strokes the curved line of her neck, luring her closer with every touch.

"You."

An unseen magnet pulls her into him, and she kisses him with a fury that matches the storm around them, arms and limbs tangling into a ball of unending motion. She knows this is illogical, insane, and too many other adjectives she'd rather not think about at the moment.

But it feels right. And so damn good.

She pulls back far enough to undo the stubborn clasp herself, watching as his eyes devour every inch of her. A shiver rocks her torso, spreading everywhere in a flash as her bra falls open and her breasts are exposed.

"God, Regina," he manages, the look on his face almost too much for her. "You're gorgeous."

She allows the straps to slide off her shoulders and down her arms, feeling an unexpected shyness at his blatant admiration. God—she's too old to feel this way, isn't she? But she almost feels young again when his fingers trace a small circle around her areola, like a woman finding a piece of herself she hadn't realized was missing.

Strong arms enfold her, wrapping her in a warmth that drugs any sense not under his command, his lips lavishing her neck with adoration as his hands continue to work her breast into a slow frenzy. She kisses him back on his shoulder, his ear lobe, wherever her mouth can locate skin, nudging a manicured nail into the waistband of his pants meaningfully.

He suddenly moves from her, standing with a purpose and shoving his pants down to the floor in haste.

"Mmmm," she murmurs appreciatively, his desire for her even more obvious when held back only by his boxers. She smiles up at him, his body silhouetted by the storm's fury, wondering if he would look just as magical if the lights were on.

Yes. She's fairly certain that he would.

He kneels back on the bed, both of them nearly naked now, touching with a new appreciation and surprising reserve. She swallows audibly, wondering at the pesky butterflies in her stomach and their terrible timing. Of course, it would be her luck to have last minute misgivings when a man hotter than hell is sitting practically nude in front of her.

"I haven't been this naked with a woman in a long time."

Damn it, he is getting to her again, but her hand reaches for his face of its own accord, stroking, comforting, understanding the true depth of feeling behind his admission as thunder shakes the room. She refuses to give into second thoughts. Not now. Not when he is so close.

"So you are nervous?" she questions, unable to stop herself from touching him, thrilled by the fact that he seems to feel the same way as his palms smooth their way up and down her arms in a promising prelude.

"Aren't you? Your expression tells me you're either nervous or about to be sick, and I'm really hoping it's the first option."

His eyes won't allow her to lie, and she grins back at him, something loosening inside of her at the concern in his eyes.

"I am," she confesses, dropping her gaze to his lap. Maybe that wasn't the best idea. He looks as if he's about to burst out of his boxers. "It's silly, I know."

His mouth touches hers unexpectedly, slow and gentle, a kiss of first love and deep connection, one that speeds through her veins drowning out anything but the feel of him against her as he pulls her close.

"Not silly," he breathes into her mouth, a primal ache expanding exponentially inside of her. "Normal. Perfectly normal."

She pulls him back on top of her as they fall back on the bed, loving the weight of him solid and hard, needing more. Bashfulness is tossed aside with the same determination as their underwear, and she is shocked to realize how natural it feels to be with him like this. Nothing between them. Nothing held back.

"You feel good," she murmurs into his hair as his mouth works its way down her neck with a fastidiousness that makes her squirm.

"And you're beyond words," he whispers as his beard edges the swell of her breasts, tickling and arousing in equal measure. "Stunning in every way."

His mouth encases her nipple, and she cries out, all sound lost in the gale outside their passionate cocoon as her hands fist in his hair in an unspoken plea to continue. His teeth then nip her gently, and she wraps one leg around his backside as her back rises off the mattress.

"Like I said earlier," he hums, his mouth hovering over where she wants him to suck. "You're a delicacy."

Lips then resume their tasting, pulling her nipple tautly into his mouth, eliciting a groan from her that seems to spur him on.

"Am I?" she manages, biting her lower lip as his fingers begin to tease her other breast, the combination of squeezing and sucking sending any conscious thought airborne as her thighs melt into molten lava.

"Without question," he returns, pausing his mouth's ministrations long enough to gaze into her eyes. "And we're just on the first course."

He goes for her other breast, and words dessert her, leaving her floundering in a fog of sensation she doesn't want to lift anytime soon. He licks her with an intensity that makes her yelp, and when he bites down gently, she throws her head back into the sheets, shoving her hips into his, reaching for what lies hot and pulsing between them.

"We may need to skip a course or two," she demands, her tone low and throaty. "I'm suddenly famished."

A growl rolls up from his chest as she clasps on to him firmly, and his forehead comes to rest on her chest as his breath thickens. Sweat begins to mingle with sweat, and his mouth moves upwards to reconnect with hers, devouring her completely.

"Never," he breathes as his fingers skim over her hip, swirling and teasing until they reach the apex of her thighs. He pauses to look back at her as noses touch and souls converge. "Too much to savor at this banquet."

He caresses her course patch of hair, and her eyes squeeze shut in anticipation, her breath hitching over and over as this game of sweet torture continues. She feels him harden in her grip as his touch glides inward, first contact making her come off the mattress, her hold on him floundering as his pressure between her legs increases.

She knows she won't last long as tight and turned on as she already is, year after year of dry seasons giving way to the rains of fury and need. Her face must reflect this, for he pauses again, kissing her gently on the lips.

"You're close, aren't you?"

She nods, missing his hand, her skin tingling all over and puckering at the wicked smile on his face. Then his face moves down, descending past her naval as he moves her knees further apart, and she is bucking before he touches her, her head already thrashing in acknowledgement of what is to come.

Then his mouth makes contact. And she comes off the bed.

She can't think, cannot process, drowning a sea of such intense pleasure it's almost too much. His fingers find her breasts again, tugging her closer and closer towards an abyss of white light, and then she is falling, writhing, gripping his shoulders, crying out his name as he prolongs her orgasm, drinking her in fully, stroking her skin with the delicacy of silk.

"God," she pants, rocking back to earth upon wave after lapping wave, the bed feeling somehow foreign against her body.

"No," he breathes huskily, his kiss tasting of earth and herself, his body gloriously hard. "Just me."

"Come here, just you."

She grins as she reaches for him again, meeting no resistance this time as she works him with her hands. He looks so vulnerable, like putty in her hands, and a surge of power shoots through her, enjoying the tight quivering of the lines on his forehead that matches the rhythm of her caress.

"Ready for the main course?" she inquires, small aftershocks still rippling across veins and muscle at odd intervals.

"I don't think I can wait much longer," he admits hoarsely, his skin now hot under her hands. "Your touch is magical."

The scent of male arousal washes over flesh and bone, making her breasts ache and her nerves spike to attention.

"You asked for dark magic," she breathes, flipping them over so she is situated on top of him. "And I always honor my promises."

He chuckles as much as he can in the state he is in, and she relishes giving him such pleasure even as she aches for completion for herself.

"I think you're dark and light magic combined," he manages before his eyes loll back in their sockets, a low moan reverberating up her thighs. "Much too powerful to be the master of just one."

She nearly falters again, his words reaching in past where they logically should, and she realizes that she is in fact about to make love to him, not simply let him into her body. God—she hadn't anticipated this.

She hadn't anticipated him.

He reaches blindly for the condoms, laid earlier on the bedside table, fumbling with a wrapper as she watches his face.

"Here," she interrupts, taking the package from trembling hands. "Let me."

She's not sure just why she wants to do this, but it thrills her to slip it on him, knowing there is now nothing holding them back. He then reaches for her hips, settling her on top of him, watching her intently for any signs of second thoughts.

There aren't any. Not anymore. And she slides down around him slowly, allowing him to fill her in more ways than one, reveling at the sensation of wholeness that takes her breath in a second.

She'd nearly forgotten how it felt to be this connected to someone, to share flesh and life, to spin a web of delight and pleasure so intimate it goes beyond what is logical. It had been hers once, a lifetime ago, the culmination of young love and heart-felt promises that went up in smoke and changed the course of her life forever.

But this is different, more mature, less rushed. Even as a steady tempo takes form, even as she rides him in the throes of a storm, she knows this is more than just sex. This is something beyond both of them, something that cannot be but is, something she wants too badly for her own peace of mind.

Something that will take a piece of herself with him when he leaves her, as he most certainly will.

She stops moving for a moment, but it is enough, and he rolls her over gently, picking up the lead where she left off, kissing her hard on the mouth, bringing her back to him in thundering swells and breathless cries. His mouth them moves back to her breast, and she is lost in all of who he is. God, she barely knows his name, but it flies off her tongue with the texture of coarse velvet as he repeatedly hits a spot that's driving her mad.

He moves in deeper, painting her flesh with his tongue, exploring her landscapes and marking new trails over the hills and valleys of her body. She can't breathe, yet air fills her lungs, her mind spinning, her body screaming as walls begin to clench and tingle, just on the verge of something glorious.

Then he moves once more, twice, three times, and it hits her soundly, her body crashing into his as ripple after ripple of ecstasy reels over and around her. It just keeps going and going, making her moan, making her grip him tightly, and he kisses her again, absorbing her orgasm into his mouth as her core continues to pulse wildly around him. Lights dance behind eyes sealed shut, her head moving now of its own accord as his mouth seeks her neck, her lips forming words that have no meaning, eliciting sounds with no set form.

A groan tickles her rib cage just as her limbs begin to settle, and his pace becomes erratic. She knows he is close, the look of concentration on his features bordering on one of pain. She grabs his buttocks, squeezing with fingers and nails, and he cries out, pumping harder and harder until a new sound is pulled from his body.

Then it's her name in the air, filling the room, hitting her squarely in the heart as she realizes it is truly she he is making love to, not the ghost of his wife or a wisp of fantasy from years of loneliness and grief. He knows her. God—he knows her.

His next cry rivals the thunders as he lets loose inside of her, shaking with effort and passion, his body trembling in the aftermath as his limbs actually falter and his weight falls atop her own. They do nothing but breathe for a time, soaking in what has just taken place, wondering what to say as he presses himself back up on his elbows and looks at her as no one but Daniel ever has.

Words are shoved aside in favor of a kiss, one lengthy and soft, still warm from spent passion and salty from bodies shared. They remain forehead to forehead, unwilling to lose this connection even if they don't yet know what it is. He then rolls to his side slowly, and she mourns the emptiness that hits her as he withdraws and throws away the condom, wondering what will happen now that so much tension has been spent.

Will he get dressed? Sleep in the other bed? Light a cigarette or try to explain what just happened between them?

But he crawls back under the sheets beside her, gathering her into his arms as if she is the most precious thing in the world to him. Hands rediscover faces as limbs settle and fit around each other, the winds howl now somehow calming after what has taken place in this bed. His mouth feathers across her forehead as her cheek comes to rest on his chest, his hair a comforting pillow, his scent now familiar and warm. And in the midst of the hurricane that has forced them together in a wild and unexpected ride, they cling to each other and sleep.


End file.
